


Volume

by AutisticWriter



Series: Alphabet Fics [22]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Banned Together Bingo, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Falling In Love, Ficlet, Introspection, Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, POV First Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26181313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticWriter/pseuds/AutisticWriter
Summary: Orville Swanson has never been good at controlling the volume of his voice. And that is one of the many things Simon Pearson loves about him.
Relationships: Simon Pearson/Orville Swanson
Series: Alphabet Fics [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1196530
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Volume

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Banned Together Bingo 2020. My Free Space, so I chose the prompt: Drug Use.

In all the years I have known you, throughout all the changes we’ve been through, one thing has remained a constant and undeniable fact: Orville Swanson can’t control the volume of his voice to save his life. You are always too loud or too quiet, something that amuses almost everyone you have met.

When we first met, you were blind drunk, brought back to camp by Dutch after you saved his life. The whole time, you rambled about everything and nothing, voice a loud, drawling slur that brought a smile to my face, even if I understood barely anything you said. I could see you were a deeply troubled man, drowning in alcohol to cope, yet you still tried your best to fit in with our gang—and to bond with me.

It took a few weeks to see the other extreme of your vocal range, on the day I discovered it wasn’t just alcohol that had you under its thumb. I found you by chance, sat outside camp, back against a tree, trembling and mumbling to yourself. But what shocked me was the tourniquet around your arm, the syringe in your shaky hand and a bottle clearly labelled MORPHINE beside you. You gasped, eyes wide with panic, and began to ramble at me in a broken whisper, mentioning back pain and God and begging me not to hate you. It broke my goddamn heart to see you like that, and I kneeled beside you without saying a word, giving you the softest look I could manage. And when you were done, I bandaged your arm and took you back to the safety of camp before the drugs kicked in, and you thanked me in the tiniest voice, tears in your eyes.

The volume seemed to be your default, your voice loud and slurred when under the effects of the alcohol and morphine (which was almost all the time). But still, one Loud Orville occasion will always stick in my mind: the night you came onto me. Humiliating me in the middle of camp, you slurred and yelled, clinging to my neck as you said you were sweet on me, so drunk you couldn’t stand up straight. And, of course, you remained oblivious to John’s laughter and my bright red face.

And the next day, when informed of the events of the night before (“You were really, really drunk, Reverend,” John said, the teen not having yet learned the importance of ‘ _minding your own fucking business_ ’. “And you said you’re sweet on Mr. Pearson!”), you buried your face in your hands, clammy and wobbly with a dreadful hangover. Your voice quiet and weak and shaky, you mumbled endless apologies , tense like you expected me to punch you in the jaw for daring to express your feelings towards another man (and who would blame you? I have spent a large chunk of my life bitterly aware of how the world hates people like me—people like us). And you couldn’t look at me, just apologizing and trembling, even after I reassured you nothing had changed between us.

Weeks flew by, and soon you came to me with a concise and sober proposition, voice soft and timid this time.

“I… I have feelings for you, Mr. Pearson,” you said, and those words will be forever burned into my mind.

You kept rambling, only shutting up when I made a stupid choice: I kissed you. And your yelp when you pulled back, shocked but smiling, alerted the nearby camp members, forcing us to spring apart before everyone came to investigate and saw our embrace. But when satisfied nobody was coming, you kissed me back, your lips rough and timid and delightful as you pressed a chaste kiss against my own.

When we first made love, falling into a tangle of blankets and limbs in a private tent far from the outskirts of camp, you moaned so loudly I had to shove your face into the pillows to muffle the sound, both of us laughing in embarrassment, so grateful we decided to leave camp and keep the others away from our intimacy. And you suppressed your moans of pleasure against my neck, chest and lips as I thrust into you, movements slow and clumsy, yet not a problem for my noisy lover. And I pressed kisses all over your face, realizing I was in love with you, and never wanted to leave your side.

Your lack of volume control can drive me mad, but I wouldn’t change you for the world, my darling Orville.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WriterAutistic)


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